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The North – Outside Winterfell
Winterfell was the beating heart of the North, the ancient seat of House Stark. Legend said it was the oldest castle on the entire continent of Westeros, standing for thousands of years.
Even in the long summer, the land carried a brooding chill.
Morning mist rolled in like the breath of the dead, drifting out of the deep Wolfwood and wrapping around the massive grey-stone fortress.
From a distance Winterfell looked like a sleeping grey wolf crouched on its gentle slope, its outline stark and solemn beneath the low clouds.
The walls were built from millions of weather-beaten blocks, every stone etched by centuries of northern wind and snow. Old tales claimed the First Men, the Children of the Forest, and giants had raised them with magic. Yet even magic couldn't stop Winterfell from being taken in the past.
The Great Keep rose tallest of all, its towers jagged like a wolf's raised hackles. The godswood lay in the northeast corner, a deep-green shadow where the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree stood out like frozen drops of blood against the grey.
The South Gate was reinforced with thick oak and iron, carved with the direwolf sigil of House Stark. When it opened, it gave a low groan like some ancient beast waking up.
A narrow packed-earth track wound away from the outer walls, linking the nearby villages and the deeper Wolfwood. Along one northward path, a lone black figure rode slowly forward.
Benjen Stark tightened his reins and paused at the crest of the rise.
He lifted his head and stared at the familiar castle. A complicated mix of feelings rose in his chest. This was his third return since he had taken the black and sworn himself to the Wall.
Each time he came back, the castle seemed smaller while the weight on his shoulders grew heavier.
He knew exactly why the Lord Commander had sent him. As a Stark, becoming the new Lord Commander would be a huge boon for the entire Night's Watch. But Benjen had never been like his brothers. He didn't think he could carry that kind of burden—that was why he had chosen the Wall in the first place.
He wore the black of the Night's Watch, the wool threadbare at the edges, sleeves and elbows patched roughly. His black cloak stirred in the light wind, fastened by a simple black sword pin.
His face was thinner than when he had left, his chin covered in a scruffy beard, deep lines carved at the corners of his eyes and forehead by wind and frost.
But those grey eyes—pure Stark eyes—were still sharp, clear and cold as a winter sky.
His mount was a sturdy northern garron, deep grey, built for endurance rather than speed. Two bulging saddlebags held reports from Castle Black, rare herbs, and small gifts for his nieces and nephews.
"Come on, old friend," Benjen murmured, giving the horse a gentle kick.
Hooves thudded dully on the dirt. His gaze swept over the familiar landscape:
To the left, a stand of birch trees, silver trunks flashing in the morning light. To the right, open fields already harvested, stubble ankle-high. A few farmers were gathering the last stalks; when they saw his black cloak they stopped and bowed their heads in respect.
Some of that respect was for the Watch, but most of it was for the Stark name. Benjen knew the Night's Watch no longer carried the same pride it once had.
In the North people still honored men who swore to guard the realm for life, giving up wives, children, and land. But that honor came with a quiet pity. These days the Watch was mostly made up of criminals, bastards, and men with nowhere else to go. Fewer and fewer highborn sons volunteered.
Benjen didn't feel he deserved pity. This was the path he had chosen, and he had never regretted it.
Lately, though… lately the things happening beyond the Wall had started to make him wonder whether the Watch could truly keep its vows and protect the realm from what was coming out of the North.
His thoughts drifted back two months to that patrol.
It had been a bitter cold morning. He had led ten rangers deep into the Haunted Forest, tracking a band of wildling raiders for three days. The wildlings had hit Mole's Town, killed three villagers, and carried off two girls.
This wasn't random. The raiders were organized, hitting for supplies and people. There were more and more "gaps" along the Wall these days.
Wildling climbers scaled the top, dropped rope ladders woven from vines, and let the rest swarm up. The raiders had grown smarter—they no longer attacked in one big host. They split into dozens of small bands. Even if most were wiped out, one successful group could bring back enough food and captives to keep the rest alive.
The other raiders had been killed by the black brothers. Only this band had escaped with prisoners.
Normally a raiding party numbered no more than twenty, lightly armed and easy to handle.
This one was different.
They found the camp deep in the woods, but it was already empty. The fire ashes were still warm— the wildlings had left less than half a day earlier.
They were moving fast.
Benjen found it strange. The camp looked nothing like a normal wildling site. Scattered around were odd items: bone-and-feather totems, hides painted with twisted symbols, dried mushrooms, and weirwood branches.
Even stranger—there were no food scraps, no signs of daily life. Normal wildling camps always had gnawed bones and fruit pits. These people had cleaned everything up as if they didn't need to eat.
They were heading east.
They caught up with the band just before sunset. The fight was short. Only eight wildlings, and they barely fought back. After four fell, the rest surrendered.
Among the prisoners was a young woman with blue spiral tattoos on her face. She said she belonged to a cave tribe from the Frostfangs.
Benjen questioned her himself, using the rough Old Tongue he had learned from veteran rangers—a harsh mix of the First Men's language and wildling dialect.
"Why did you attack Mole's Town?" he asked, voice hard in the silent forest.
The woman spat a bloody gob and laughed, showing crooked yellow teeth. "For food, crow. What else?"
"Your camp had no food scraps. And where are the prisoners?" Benjen stared into her eyes. "You don't look like starving people. What did you do with the girls?"
Her smile faltered for a split second, then returned. "We ate them and cleaned up the bones. That a problem?"
Benjen didn't press it. Instead he asked, "Where were you going? There's no tribe east of here."
"We're heading for Hardhome," the woman answered without hesitation, as if the answer had been prepared. "There's shelter there. Food. Warmth. The white walkers won't go there."
"Hardhome?" Benjen frowned. It was an abandoned wildling village north of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, destroyed in some old disaster and left in ruins.
"There's nothing there but broken walls."
"There is now," the woman said, eyes gleaming with fanatic light. "He built a sanctuary. Anyone who lays down their weapons and follows the rules can go. No fighting. No hunger. No… white walkers."
A chill ran down Benjen's spine. He had heard talk like this before from wildling fanatics. "Who is he?"
The woman shook her head. "I don't know his name. They say he came from the south, bringing knowledge and power. He says the Wall will fall and we must be ready."
After the interrogation Benjen reported everything to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. The two female prisoners were still missing. Many brothers believed the poor girls had been sacrificed.
The Old Bear took it seriously and called a meeting of senior officers. Most of the Watch dismissed it.
"Just wildling ravings," chief builder Othell Yarwyck scoffed. "They're always inventing stories—King-Beyond-the-Wall, the Horn of Winter, now some southern savior. They don't even know what the Others really are!"
"But this is different," Benjen insisted. "These wildlings weren't heading for the Wall. They were gathering on the northern east coast, and they claimed the Others won't touch Hardhome. If that's true…"
"If the Others even exist," Lord Steward Bowen Marsh said coldly, "why would they spare Hardhome? It makes no sense. If they were real, those wildlings would already be dead—we can't even stop them."
Jeor Mormont slammed his fist on the table. "Benjen's concern is valid. The wildlings are being organized by some force. That is never a good sign. History is full of wildling kings—Raymun Redbeard, the Lord of Bones—every time they come south the North bleeds."
He turned to Eastwatch commander Cotter Pyke. "We need a ship to scout Hardhome."
Pyke, a burly man with a savage scar running from forehead to chin, shook his head. "Eastwatch has only five seaworthy ships, and they all need repairs. The east coast is crawling with pirates—rumor says they've taken Skagos. Sending a ship is too risky."
The meeting dragged on for two hours with no real decision. No hard proof. Not enough ships. Not enough men.
The Night's Watch now numbered barely three hundred souls, spread thin across the three manned castles. The rest of the Wall was abandoned.
Afterward, the Old Bear pulled Benjen aside.
The Bear was a northern man himself. He knew wildlings didn't lie about their gods or the things that haunted the far north.
The wildlings had grown more restless every year. In the deeper north, tribes that never used to raid were now pushing south.
Something serious was happening up there.
"I need you to ride to Winterfell," the Old Bear said, voice low and tired. "Lord Eddard is the Warden of the North and our strongest friend. Tell him what we've seen. Ask him to send ships from White Harbor to scout the east coast. And… see if he can spare any new recruits. We're running on empty."
Benjen nodded. "I will, my lord."
"One more thing," Jeor hesitated. "Choose your words carefully. Lord Eddard is an honorable man, but he is Warden now. He has to weigh the whole North. Without solid proof—only wildling ravings and suspicions—he may not be able to help us fully."
Benjen understood. The Watch was supposed to stay out of the Seven Kingdoms' politics, yet they survived only because the lords supported them.
And right now the realm was boiling. Jon Arryn dead. King Robert reportedly riding north…
Benjen sighed and pulled his thoughts back to the present.
His horse carried him to the South Gate of Winterfell.
Two guards stood on the gatehouse in grey mail and cloaks bearing the direwolf. They recognized him.
"Lord Benjen!" one shouted. "Welcome home!"
The great oak gates groaned open on their chains. Benjen rode through into the outer yard.
Familiar sights rushed at him: stables on the left, horses nickering and the smell of hay; the smithy on the right, hammers ringing; straight ahead the stone steps to the Great Keep, flanked by direwolf statues whose carved faces were grooved by centuries of rain.
"Uncle!"
A young voice called from the right. Benjen turned.
On the training yard stood several familiar figures.